


never let me go

by lysimachia



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27903880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysimachia/pseuds/lysimachia
Summary: Gold didn't get his memories back when Emma came to town, but Belle did. Now she's determined to wake him up.According to the rules of this strange new world, she's fairly sure that the best way is...dating.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 13
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting some very old fic from Tumblr (previously daylilium on Tumblr)
> 
> And I miraculously regained access to my Tumblr! Hit me up at https://lysi-machia.tumblr.com/ :)

“Belle! Belle, are you here?”

Belle French poked her head around the stack of books piled precariously high on her desk and smiled. “Over here, Henry!” She stood, smoothing down her dress, and pulled a bar of chocolate out of her desk drawer. Henry’s mom was terribly strict about sweets, but Belle slipped him a candy bar or a lollipop whenever she could. He spent an awful lot of time in the library; Belle was sure he was lonely, and she liked to remind him that he was cared for.

Stepping out from behind her desk, Belle found herself face-to-face with a tall, blonde woman, who looked a little dumbstruck. “Oh!” Her surprise must have shown on her face, as the blonde woman tilted her head and stuck out her hand abruptly.

“Um. Hi.” She looked awkward, as though she didn’t entirely want to be here. Belle shot her a reassuring smile and clasped her hand warmly. It had been an awfully long time since she’d met someone new.

At the blonde woman’s side, Henry’s grin could have split his face in two. “Belle, this is my mom. My other mom, I mean.” Belle felt her eyebrows shoot up, but tried to keep her face impassive. She evidently didn’t do a particularly good job, as the blonde woman grimaced.

“I’m Henry’s birth mom. I guess,” she said dazedly. “I mean – I am. But, I’m…y’know. New.”

Belle chuckled, drawing her hand back. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you.” She smiled at Henry and handed him his chocolate bar, which he grasped eagerly and stuffed in his pocket. “My name’s Belle French, I run the library – obviously,” she said.

The blonde woman nodded, looking around. “It’s nice. I’m Emma,” she said, looking back at Belle with a smile. “Emma Swan.”

***

Belle knocked timidly on the heavy oak door of Rumpelstiltskin’s study. She’d felt quite put out that morning, when she’d fixed her hair and pressed her dress (as best she could by herself) and gone down for tea, only to wait nearly thirty minutes at the table by herself with no sign of Rumpelstiltskin. They’d been getting on so much better recently, and she thoroughly enjoyed their tea time; aside from the little moments when they’d talk about a book she was reading, or the rare times he’d indulge her questions about his life and his adventures, it was her favourite time she spent with him. She’d always rather thought he enjoyed it too. Her temper rising, she’d set the tea things on a silver tray and marched up to the north tower, where he always locked himself away when he had something private to work on.

Her anger has dissipated and her nerves faltered about halfway up the stairs, though; he’d never expressly forbidden her to come here, but had informed her in the breezy tone that always marked a more dangerous purpose that she needn’t bother cleaning the north tower, as it would only mess itself up again as soon as she was finished. “Magic, dearie,” he’d told her, wiggling his fingers in front of her face. “Cares not for the whims of the housekeeper.” She’d batted his hands away, giggling, and told him she didn’t much care for magic’s reasons, as long as it cut down on her cleaning time.

She felt foolish, suddenly, standing in front of those great heavy doors. This was a private place, a dangerous place if she knew Rumpelstiltskin, and not somewhere she should be poking around. Turning, she tiptoed away, trying to keep the tea things from clattering too much on the tray.

_Creeeeeak._

Whirling around, her heart hammering in her chest, Belle saw that the door to Rumpelstiltskin’s study had opened about halfway, beckoning her inside. Edging forward, she used her shoulder to push it fully open, and stepped slowly into the dimly-lit room.

Aside from a few candles dotted haphazardly about, there was little light in the room. The thick curtains that she’d torn down around the rest of the castle still covered the windows here, and the place was thick with dust and haze and steam. She set the tray down on the first clear surface she could find, and peered around with narrowed eyes, looking for Rumpelstiltskin.

“Hello?” Her voice echoed around the room and made her shiver. It was unusually warm compared to the rest of the castle, which tended towards the draughty, but there was a bite in the air which had very little to do with the temperature.

Focusing her gaze on the numerous tables and shelves littered about, she smiled, finding so many things she recognised from other parts of the castle. Several bowls and plates from the kitchen that she’d served him food in, and which she’d been nagging him to return. A little crystal vase he’d been staring at during dinner once, and snatched up and ran off with without a word during dessert. Endless spools and reels of gold thread, as well as smaller strands of it littered all over the place. A spinning wheel; smaller than the one in the dining hall, and not as well-used.

And nestled in amongst these familiar treasures, pots and jars and bottles filled with strange ingredients, glistening and sparkling and oozing and steaming all around her. She’d kept away from her master’s magic as best she could – in truth, it frightened her more than she let show, the things he could do with a wave of his hand or a few mutterings under his breath – but, surrounded by it now, she felt a wave of curiosity.

A large bowl near to the window caught her attention, and she tiptoed over to it, instantly mesmerised by the swirling, mercurial contents. It looked almost like some precious metal or stone made liquid; it sparkled like a diamond one moment, then gleamed as bright as freshly-polished armour, then turned in on itself and glistened gold-green like Rumpelstiltskin’s skin.

Her vision narrowed suddenly, and the whirling contents of the bowl seemed to rise up and glow, making the rest of the room pitch-black by comparison. Entranced, she stepped closer, feeling for a moment a warmth that seemed to come from the captivating, shimmering substance rising ever higher from the small bowl. She wondered how such a thing could possibly fit in an ordinary porcelain bowl like that. A tiny, rapt smile lighting her face, she reached out, touching her fingertips delicately to the substance; she’d expected it to feel smooth and warm, like liquid, but it almost recoiled from her touch, scattering in little wisps like sentient smoke.

Reaching out further and closing her hand around it, the substance changed; all at once, it was dark, the light it seemed to emanate gone, leaving the room darker than it had been before, indeed, darker than anywhere Belle had ever been. She blinked rapidly, trying to readjust her eyes, and she felt a sudden trembling in her closed fist, which rapidly grew to a stinging almost-pain, like a flame had nearly touched her skin but not quite. Snatching back her hand and stumbling away, Belle grabbed the tea tray and half-ran to the door, her chest heaving.

The palm of her hand had tingled for the rest of the day, and she’d been terrified that she’d wake up the next morning with several fingers missing, or blue hair, or as a frog. She woke up as Lady Belle of the Marchlands, with both hands intact and no missing fingers, and no trace of tingling remaining.

Rumpelstiltskin had asked her at dinner a few nights past if she’d gone into his study. After a pause, Belle had set down her fork and folded her hands in her lap.

“Yes, the other day. You weren’t there for tea, so I went looking for you.”

She’d been expecting a reprimand at the very least, if not a searing indictment of her too-familiar behaviour and an interrogation into what she’d touched or moved or ruined. Instead, her employer nodded a few times, staring very intently at the lamb on his plate.

“Oh. I’m…sorry. For missing tea.”

Belle had stared at him, and smiled, and perhaps blushed a little. After a few weeks, she’d forgotten everything about the episode but Rumpelstiltskin’s fumbling apology and the warmth it had bloomed in her chest.

***

“Belle? Are you OK?”

Blinking, Belle focused her eyes, released a deep breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. Emma was looking at her warily, and Henry had his head cocked to one side and concern in his eyes.

“Belle?”

Jerking her head down to look at Henry, Belle smiled. “Of course! Of course, Henry, I’m just fine. Just fine.” Smoothing her dress with nervous fingers, she smiled up at Emma.

“Well, I’d…best be getting on. Henry, if you want to show Emma around the library you’re more than welcome. You can even use the ladder if you’re careful, and Emma holds it for you.” She winked at the other woman. “He loves using the ladder.”

Emma’s wary look disappeared as she grinned back at Belle, Henry already tugging insistently on her arm. “Thanks, Belle. It was nice to meet you!” The two of them went running off then, Henry chattering away about all the books he wanted Emma to see, and how Emma should get a library card too and something about a cobra.

As soon as they were safely out of sight, Belle staggered into her tiny office, locked the door behind her with trembling hands, and clutched her sides. Hundreds of images were bolting through her mind at once. She could see her father, selling flowers in a ratty t-shirt and ordering a legion of knights atop a majestic white horse. She could see her home, a tiny but cosy apartment above a little flower shop in the centre of town. She saw it waver and flicked and melt into a grand palace, a sweeping ballroom and acres of land. She saw herself running through the park in dungarees with a kite streaming in the wind behind her, and hiking up her skirts and petticoats to play dragons behind the stables with the maids.

She sobbed, and clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to stop the tears even as they flowed freely down her face. She could see her mother, hazy memories of a thin, sickly woman surrounded by tubes and machines in a stark white hospital bed. She saw her sitting tall and regal in a golden throne, wrapped in finery. Her shaking hands clutched at the teardrop pearl around her neck. She saw both of those women, the same women who were not the same at all, stroking her hair and she settled the necklace around her neck with weak, thin fingers. She saw both her fathers shaking with tears and gathering their little girls up in their arms.

Sinking down to the floor, Belle French the librarian and Lady Belle of the Marchlands sobbed into her hands, for two lives she’d lived that were no longer her own.


	2. Chapter 2

Belle wrapped her scarf around her neck and sighed. Today would be her third try, and something told her she wasn’t going to get any further. Still, she was a great believer in persistence, and wasn’t about to change tack after only two failed attempts.

She’d try a third time, at least, before labelling Plan A a failure.

Locking the apartment door behind her, she yelled a goodbye to her father in the flower shop before skipping out the door, shoving her hands in her pockets instantly as the cold January air bit at her. As much as she appreciated the multitude of clothing choices for women in this land, she found herself hard pressed to stay as warm as she used to, in her endless layer of petticoats and undergarments. Today she was wearing what she understood was called ‘long underwear’ underneath her heavy jeans and thick blue jumper, though the part of her that was Lady Belle couldn’t quite understand why. It bore more resemblance to this land’s regular clothes than its undergarments, which were altogether more frilly and fitted. The part of her that was still Belle French just rolled her eyes at her own confusion.

She set off at a brisk pace down the street to Granny’s Diner, where she picked up two steaming cups of coffee, had a quick chat with Ruby and tipped far too much, before taking a deep breath and heading off to her main destination.

The bell above the door went off as she walked in, and it made her smile. It seemed such a nice, welcoming little thing, in comparison to its owner.

“Good morning, Mr Gold!” She beamed at him as she strode forward and set his coffee down on the counter. “Freezing, isn’t it? I quite like it, though. It’s fun getting all your winter clothes out, scarves and gloves and everything.” Settling her hands around her coffee and lifting it to her lips, she took a sip without ever taking her eyes off him. “Don’t you want your coffee? It’s fresh, right from Granny’s.”

Gold hadn’t lifted his eyes from the book of records he was perusing, and didn’t move to take the coffee. “Your rent isn’t due for another two weeks, Miss French. Plenty of time for you and your father to scrape together whatever’s missing.”

Belle smiled fondly at him from underneath her chestnut curls. “Oh, we’ll have the rent, no problem. We’ve probably got enough for the next couple of months at the moment. You’d be surprised how many people get flowers over the Christmas period; usually as last-minute gifts, I find. And my father made some lovely wreaths and decorations this year, mistletoe and the like. They were really popular.”

Gold didn’t respond, but made a few little marks in his book. Belle leant on the counter and craned her neck to see what he was doing.

“Miss French,” he said in a level, passive tone. “Do I interrupt you at your work to peer at documents regarding library business?”

Belle paused, pretending to think it over. “No,” she said finally. “Not yet, anyway.”

Gold inclined his head, still not looking up from the page. “Then you’ll understand when I ask you to extend me the same courtesy.”

Belle nodded, taking advantage of his stubborn refusal to acknowledge her to rake her eyes greedily over his face. It had taken her a while to get used to it, at first; she would have thought the change to his skin would have bothered her the most, but it was the eyes. She remembered his eyes vividly, wide and inhuman and impossibly dark, menacing and teasing in the same measure. They glittered like a lizard’s or a dragon’s would, she’d always thought, although she only had drawings and diagrams of lizards and exaggerated tales of dragons from overeager knights in her father’s court to go on.

She found herself taking quite a liking to his hair here, though. She’d never really thought about it at the Dark Castle; it was curlier, she remembered, wilder, like the rest of him was. But it caught her eyes here, falling in soft waves around his face, streaks of grey hidden amongst the brown and just begging to be touched. Her fingers itched, and she clasped them tighter around her coffee cup.

“So, Mr Gold,” she began. “You’re busy Friday, you said, and through the weekend. How about next Monday?”

Gold’s lip curled, but he didn’t answer right away. Belle ploughed ahead, seeing where this was going but determined not to give up just yet.

“I know you said you’ve been to Luigi’s, but what about that little seafood place down on 9th? I delivered some flowers there once to a guy who was proposing to his girlfriend, it looked really nice. Cosy. And the owner was very friendly.” The owner, Lou, had once been the famous Louis Daigneault, Head Chef in the castle of Prince Eric, who’d attracted folks from kingdoms away with his legendary cuisine. The curse had turned him into a rather surly man with a few too many missing fingers to be a savant in the kitchen, but he’d always been nice to Belle.

Gold heaved a sigh, snapping his record book shut and striding into the back room. Undeterred, Belle picked up the coffees and followed him, stepping neatly over a few misplaced knick-knacks with a smile. _Will he ever learn to put things away?_

Her previous two visits, she hadn’t managed to come back here; he’d turned her down flatly at the counter, and asked her ice-cold and politely to leave. She looked around, intrigued. There was a worn wooden table in the centre of the room that made her breath catch in her throat, it was so alike the ones she’d seen in the north tower. The walls were lined with even more trinkets, as well as books and bottles and broken picture frames and particularly dusty cardboard boxes, no doubt filled with even more treasures from the past. She shivered, recognising more than one item from the castle.

“Miss French, I don’t believe I invited you back here.” His back was to her; he was setting the book back on a shelf amongst a long row of identical volumes.

“You know, they do marvellous things with computers nowadays.” Belle trotted over to the wooden table and set the coffees down, taking a seat and gesturing for him to sit beside her. He gave her a blank look instead.

“Computers,” he deadpanned.

Belle resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, computers. Shiny metal boxes, wonderfully efficient things. You could digitise all your records, save keeping them in those,” she gestured to the shelf laden with tomes. “It’d make it a thousand times easier to organise.”

Gold grasped the handle of his cane with both hands. “As I said, Miss French,” he repeated with a bite. “I did not invite you back here.”

Belle smiled. “No, but I invited you to dinner.” She tilted her head, every nerve ending in her body screaming for him to hold her, sit with her, stop looking at her with those cold eyes. “Say you’ll come?”

Perhaps it was her imagination, but she could have sworn he looked at her a fraction of a second longer than before, his eyes softening for the barest moment. Then, abruptly, he jerked his gaze away with a tiny sneer, his cane clipping the hardwood floor harshly as he walked back out to the front of the shop. Belle let out a sigh, reluctantly picking up his coffee and taking it back out. He was stood rigidly behind the counter, his cane hooked over the edge and his hands folded on the glass countertop. Stopping in front of him, she looked him square in the eye as she set the coffee firmly down in front of him.

“At least drink your coffee,” she said firmly. “You’ll get cold.”

Gold looked at her stonily. “Miss French, I have a business to run. If you have nothing else to discuss with me, I’d appreciate you leaving me to my work.”

With a small, sad smile, Belle headed towards the exit. The chime of the bells rang loudly in the silence as she headed back out into the cold.

“Have a nice day, Mr Gold.”

He didn’t reply, and Belle didn’t look back at him as she walked away, the tell-tale burning at the back of her eyes warning her not to. She made it halfway down the road before realising that she was going the wrong way, back to her house instead of towards the library. Sighing, she spun around and set off back towards the pawn shop. _Maybe if I go past really fast_ , she thought sheepishly, _he won’t notice me_.

But she’d lived far too long without seeing him, without looking at his careworn face and thin shoulders and nimble hands and feeling the rush of warmth in her chest that told her _yes, that’s him, that’s the man I love_. She’d been far too long without him, and she couldn’t stop herself peeking through the window for one more glimpse at she ambled past.

The sight of him behind the counter, his long fingers curled around the coffee she’d brought him and a small smile on his face, was enough to spill the tears over her eyes, and put an extra bounce in her step for the rest of the day.

***

“Dad? I’m home!”

 _Papa_ , her mind whispered, _you used to call him Papa_. She squashed that voice firmly, unwrapping her multitude of layers and hanging her scarf, hat and coat in the hallway. She found him in the kitchen, frowning at a takeout pizza menu. She tutted loudly, pulling the milk out of the fridge.

“Why don’t we go out for a proper meal?” she suggested. “Or I could make something. I think we have pasta.”

Her father chuckled and waved the menu at her. “Or we could have a meal we’re at least 99% sure won’t kill us.”

Swatting him on the arm, Belle poured herself a tall glass of milk and settled against the dull kitchen counter to sip at it. “At the very least, get a side salad.”

Her father picked up the phone and began dialling, shooting her a sideways glance as he held the received up to his ear. She poked her tongue out at him.

“I can’t even remember the last time you drank milk,” he said. “Not since you were tiny, I’m sure.”

Belle drained the last of the glass, setting it in the sink and planting a kiss on her father’s cheek as she jogged out of the room.

Safely ensconced in her bedroom, yelling a vaguely affirmative answer to her father’s call that dinner would be half an hour, Belle pulled the thick notebook from under her bed, caressing it gently with one hand before flipping it open.

She turned the pages slowly, almost reverently, tracing the letters and words that she almost had mesmerised by now. There was a page on Mary Margaret and Princess Snow, with tiny doodles of two identical women with drastically different hairstyles. There was a page on Ruby, lots of details about the girl who was Belle French’s best friend since childhood and a few frustrated, scribbled theories about her counterpart. The pages about Emma and Henry always made her smile, her own excitable accounts of their varied adventures threatening to spill onto another double-page. She purposefully turned two pages at once, hiding the Evil Queen’s cutting red smile and her own small, shaky script from her own eyes.

Turning towards the middle of the book, she stared at the pages for her Rumpelstiltskin. Fourteen pages detailing her time in the Dark Castle and everything she knew about her strange magic man; his quirks and oddities, his habits, all the deals he’d ever let slip details of, every tiny mention he’d ever made of his past and his family. The way he concentrated so hard when he spun that he’d jump half a mile in the air when she set his tea down next to him. When he’d caught her in his arms and held onto her a fraction too long. She’d tried to draw him, too, but never quite got it right.

There were two pages for Mr Gold, and even now looking at them made her heart ache a little. Underneath his name, in neat looping script at the top, was a single shaky sentence.

_I saw him today. He looked sad._

Underneath that, in a slightly firmer hand that belied her state when she wrote it, was this:

_Spoke with Mr Gold today. I ran into him on the street and apologised, then asked if he had any nice jewellery in his shop for a friend’s birthday gift. He was mad at first, but quite polite._

_He doesn’t remember._

She’d detailed her every encounter with him since then, as well as every glimpse she caught of him on the street, trying her hardest to get some sense of his schedule. As far as she could tell, he drove himself to and from work every day, and only visited the town on rare occasions, usually for business. It seemed prudent, then, that she should visit him in his shop.

_First time in the pawn shop today. Lots of things from the Dark Castle, but I can’t remember them exactly. Bought a necklace & will store it away for Ruby’s birthday. He was polite but busy with something else, & hard to get into a conversation. (Same as ever, then.)_

She’d hatched her plan then, and written a few short paragraphs about it; she’d ask him out, as she remembered Belle French asking out Billy Jones in high school, and they’d date. And then, eventually, he’d remember her. She’d written _True Love’s Kiss?_ in tiny lettering down the side of the page, and crossed it out three times.

_Went to the pawn shop today and asked him out for dinner. He said no, and didn’t drink the coffee. Will try again in a few days._

_Asked him again today; said no, threw the coffee in the bin. Will give it a week._

Smiling, Belle clicked open her favourite ballpoint pen, and scribbled another two sentences near the bottom of the page. She was going to need to go onto a third, soon.

_Asked again today: said no, but drank the coffee. Looked happy._


	3. Chapter 3

Belle tossed the crumpled paper into the corner of her room with considerable force; it bounced off and ended up in the pile of others already there. Tearing another blank sheet out of her notepad, she pulled the end of her pen out of her mouth and tapped it irritably against the page.

“Belle! Hon! Aren’t you gonna be late?”

Belle sighed. The past week, she’d felt infinitely more frustrated than the first two months since Emma had arrived and she’d remembered. Perhaps she was still in a haze back then, still adjusting and making plans and organising her curse memories from her old ones.

Now, it all seemed to have ground to a halt. She was getting nowhere with Gold, living with her father while he was still blissfully unaware of their previous lives was driving her crazy, and she still found herself ducking behind trashcans and down alleyways to avoid the Mayor. With everyone else, she could pretend, but she remained convinced that Queen Regina would see through her in a matter of seconds.

She was almost certain young Henry knew that she remembered; he’d been talking her ear off about Operation Cobra and dragging her to super-secret meetings with Emma (held in broad daylight at Granny’s, of course), and had eyed her keenly yesterday when he’d shown her his book. She’d seen it before, of course – there weren’t many Storybrooke residents who hadn’t – but looked at it with more than a passing interest now. As far as she could tell, she wasn’t actually in it, though Rumpelstiltskin made a few memorable appearances.

Early that morning, as she’d lain awake in bed listening to the distant sounds of her father snoring and the newly-reawakened town bells ringing, she’d decided to take her Rumpelstiltskin Plan up a notch. She couldn’t stand this; this pointless, useless waiting, this sitting around doing nothing. When her village had needed a hero, a rescuer and a saviour, she’d stood up and been just that. But there was another saviour here. She wasn’t needed, not to save the town and bring its people back from the brink of destruction.

Perhaps not. But perhaps, instead, she could rescue her True Love.

***

A broad grin spread over Belle’s face as the hammering at her front door grew louder. She’d been expecting this, had even shooed her father out on a long errand to get rid of him, and she was practically vibrating with excitement. Bounding down the stairs, she forced the grin from her face, neatened up her delicate blue dress and white cardigan, and opened the door.

“Oh, Mr Gold!” She was the picture of innocence. “What a nice surprise! Won’t you come in?”

Gold glared at her, his knuckles white around the head of his cane and his mouth a thin, sharp line. “Miss French,” he ground out between gritted teeth. “ _What_ ,” here he held up his free hand, in which was clenched a piece of white paper. “Is the meaning of this?”

Belle tilted her head. “I’m sure I have no idea, Mr Gold.” Spinning around, she called over her shoulder, “Milk and sugar in your tea?”

Bustling about in the kitchen, she shot a sly glance to the doorway, where Mr Gold stood, his fury still evident in his face even as confusion battled with his features. She’d kept her ears pricked the last few months, and had heard a lot of high and mighty talk about ethics and good business from the patrons of the library, and Granny’s in particularly. Most of Storybrooke’s resident seemed to hold Mr Gold in the highest and the lowest of regard at the same time, unquestionably accepting his authority while denouncing him as a charlatan and a thief. She wondered how many people in Storybrooke were truly unafraid of Mr Gold.

Smiling, she gestured for him to come in. “Sit down; you must be tired, walking all the way here from your shop.” She set a plate of cookies on the kitchen table and busied herself with the kettle. “So how do you like your tea?”

She could practically hear him grinding his teeth, and barely suppressed a giggle. “Miss French.” Belle turned innocently at the sound of his voice, and saw him standing closer, only a few paces away from her now. “What do you mean by sending me this?”

Belle stepped forward, ignoring the slight alarm in his eyes as she gently pried the paper from his hands, smoothing it out and setting it on the table next to the cookies. On one side, there was a neatly organised police report, detailing a recorded encounter in which Mr Gold explicitly threatened one of his tenants – the lovely and obliging Kathryn Nolan – with not only unlawful eviction but vandalism of her property should she not get her outstanding rent paid in full within the week. The other side was blank but for a little scrawl in Belle’s own hand in the bottom corner:

 _Would love to discuss this further with you. Perhaps I can cook dinner for you on Friday?_  
Love,  
Belle xxx

Belle leaned against the table, folding her hands in front of her and looking up at Gold through her lashes. “I suppose I understand why you’re angry.”

Gold spluttered out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, you _suppose_ so?! Miss French, are you threatening me?”

“Of course not, Mr Gold,” Belle chided playfully. “Not like you threatened Mrs Nolan, anyway. But I have asked you very nicely if you’d like to join me for dinner several times now, and you’ve always refused. I thought perhaps, if I could get you here –” she picked the plate of cookies up with a flourish and went back to standing right in front of him, beaming. “And get you to try my wonderful cooking for yourself, you might have a change of heart.”

Mr Gold didn’t move a muscle, staring at her with wide eyes and a slack mouth, like she was crazy. _Well_ , Belle thought. _It wouldn’t be the most outrageous assumption to make_.

Carefully, she picked up the topmost cookie – oatmeal and raison, her specialty, which her father’s penchant for chocolate chip made a rarity – and brought it to his lips.

“Just one bite?” She fought the flush from her cheeks.

Slowly, Gold raised one eyebrow into a perfect arch. For a long moment, Belle was sure he would push her away, tell her she was being ridiculous and childish and to stop stalking him. For just a second, she saw him with glittering skin and otherworldly eyes, shaking her shoulders and pushing her away.

Then, in one single measured movement, he leaned forward a fraction, closed his sharp teeth around the edge of the cookie and snapped off a bite, licking his lips almost imperceptibly as he drew it into his mouth.

Belle was well aware that she was holding her breath as she watched him chew, but didn’t let it out until he swallowed.

“So?” Her throat was dry. “What do you think?”

Gold met her eyes steadily. She’d think him entirely collected if his hands weren’t shaking, and his knuckles white where he gripped his cane.

“Not bad, Miss French.” His voice was low, and Belle couldn’t help a shiver running down her back. “Not exceptional. But not bad.”

Narrowing her eyes, Belle jutted her chin out boldly. “Not bad? I’m sorry, Mr Gold, but I think my cookies are a little bit better than not bad.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “I’m afraid I can’t agree, Miss French.” Stepping away from her then, he turned and headed for the door. “I expect you’ll provide something rather better for dinner tonight. Eight o’clock, say?”

Belle’s heart leapt into her throat and she slammed the plate down on the table, hurrying to join him at the front door. “Really?!”

Gold inclined his head regally. “We do need to discuss your rather poor efforts at blackmail and forgery, after all. I’m fairly sure Sheriff Swan spells ‘harassment’ with two ‘s’s on her reports.” He paused. “If she writes reports at all, that is.” Smirking a little at the wide-eyed look on her face, he stepped outside, not bothering to turn to face her as he called his goodbye over his shoulder.

Belle shut the door firmly, and peeked around the curtain to watch him disappear down the road. He was completely right about the report, of course; she had given Mrs Nolan a little recorder (and all but begged her to rile Mr Gold up the next time he came for the rent), but she’d painstakingly made the report by herself on her father’s computer.

But he’d said yes anyway.

Giving in to her excitement – she was alone and inside, after all – Belle jumped up and down a little, clapping her hands in front of her and bounding back into the kitchen. Snatching up a cookie and taking a large unladylike bite, she retrieved a stack of cooking books from the cupboard and settled down at the table. She had a rather extensive meal to plan.

***

Belle glanced at the clock on the wall, her heart pounding furiously in her chest. He was late; it was nearly half past eight, and with every tick of the second hand she was ready to take the damn clock off the wall and throw it out the window.

 _Rumpelstiltskin was late_ , she reminded herself, smoothing her hands over her dark dress. _He was late all the time, for tea or dinner or to his appointments with his…clients, I suppose you’d call them? He always liked to keep people waiting. It made him feel powerful_.

Still, she couldn’t sit and watch the clock anymore; she checked on dinner, keeping warm in the oven, and trotted nervously through to the living room, settling down on the sofa and kicking her shoes off. She wiggled her toes. She’d worn her only pair of high heels for the occasion, certain she wasn’t imagining one particular curse memory of Mr Gold glancing for a second too long at her legs when she wore them for Ruby’s 25th birthday. Drawing her feet up underneath her, she grabbed a book from the table at her side, knowing full well she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on it.

Four and a half pages later (although if she was quizzed about the book later she wouldn’t have been able to name a single character), a heavy knock at the door made her jump from her seat. She set the book down and put her shoes back on, her hands flying all over herself to smooth and straighten her dress as she headed for the door. She was sure he’d be able to hear her heartbeat.

Taking a deep breath and smoothing her hair behind one ear, she flung open the door.

Mr Gold leaned heavily on his cane in front of her, his chest heaving and his eyes half-closed. There was a tiny trickle of blood running down the left side of his face. “Miss French.” He stopped, blinking hard and focusing on her face. “I do apologise for my lateness.”

Belle’s eyes widened, and she grabbed hold of his arm, coaxing him inside and onto the sofa. The way he collapsed onto it and dropped his cane to the floor sent a new wave of fear over her. She swept her hand over his forehead, pushing back his long hair to reveal a nasty gash on the side of his forehead.

She managed to smother her gasp, and left him long enough to find their only first aid kit. Without a word, she sat close beside him, dabbing at the wound with slightly trembling hands and covering it with a tiny plaster. She kept her hand on his face when she was done, stroking through his hair. His eyes had been closed throughout her attentions, but opened then, searching her face with a wariness that nearly broke her.

“Do you need some painkillers?” she murmured. He shook his head, not taking his eyes off her. “Some water?” He shook his head again.

She lifted her other hand to caress the other side of his face, feather-light. Blinking fast, she managed a tiny smile. “I really should take you to the hospital. You might well have a concussion.”

“I’ve had a concussion before, Miss French,” he said gently, but the slight slurring of his speech didn’t do much to calm her. “This is nothing.” He paused, glancing down at her dress, and she saw his nostrils flare as he inhaled. He looked back at her. “You really did make dinner.”

Raising her head to glance into the kitchen, Belle nodded. “Of course I did. I can fetch you some, if you’re hungry?”

Gold just stared at her. “I didn’t…” He trailed off, and Belle risked a glance down to his lips. Without thinking, she drew one hand slowly down his face, keeping the other in his hair, and traced her fingertips gently across his bottom lip. His breath hitched in his chest.

Straightening up a little, he turned abruptly away from her hands, leaving her holding them in the air for a moment before they dropped into her lap. She fiddled awkwardly with her thumbs.

Clearing his throat, he was the first to speak. Belle was inordinately pleased to hear how hoarse his voice was. “Dinner would be lovely, Miss French, if you’re still…”

“Yes,” Belle said instantly, rising to her feet. “I am.” She smiled down at him, resting one hand briefly on his shoulder. “You stay there. You need to rest a little; we can eat in here.”

He nodded wordlessly, not quite meeting her eyes. “Thank you.” His voice was small.

Belle dished out their beef bourguignon onto plates and set it on trays, along with tall glasses of water, carrying Gold’s out first before darting back to get her own. They ate in silence for a few minutes, before Gold laid his knife and fork down and spoke.

“Why are you doing this?”

Belle looked over at him, but didn’t stop eating. He was staring down at his plate. “Because I wanted to have dinner with you.” She smiled.

Gold furrowed his brow and didn’t raise his eyes. “I’m your landlord.” Belle couldn’t think of an answer to that, so she took another mouthful and waited for him to continue. “You’re not the least bit curious about why someone would have struck me on the head tonight? It doesn’t bother you in the slightest what I do?”

Belle shrugged, taking another bite. “Your food’sh getting’ col’,” she said, her voice muffled around the food in her mouth. She swallowed and smiled, wondering what Rumpelstiltskin would have said if she’d spoken with her mouth full back at the Dark Castle.

Gold raised an eyebrow. “Charming.” Belle spluttered out a laugh, coughing as her mouthful caught in her throat, and drained half her glass of water in one go, still giggling as she settled back on the cushions. Mr Gold looked surprised, but had a half-smile on his face.

Belle set her tray down on the floor, shifting in her seat to face him properly. “I know that you like to terrorise people,” she began softly. “And I don’t doubt that you got that little head wound from someone you behaved badly towards. I assume you deserved it.” Gold’s eyebrows shot up into his hair and he opened his mouth to speak, but Belle cut him off smoothly. “But I like you, very much, and I wanted to have dinner with you.”

Gold looked at her face, then down at his plate, then back to her face. He doesn’t trust me, Belle thought suddenly. Perhaps he never will.

With a sigh, he finally picked up his knife and fork again, taking a mouthful and chewing it slowly. “This is very good, Miss French,” he said. “Is that rosemary?”

Belle nodded, picking her own plate up from the floor and popping a mushroom into her mouth. “And thyme,” she added. “The recipe I used also called for garlic, but the store didn’t have any.”

Gold nodded thoughtfully. “Can’t be helped. It’s quite wonderful as it is.”

Belle smiled. “Yes. I think so.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Mrs Gold_. _Mrs Belle Gold_. Belle bit her lip, tilting her head this way and that to look at the words on the page. Squinting, she ripped the page out of her notebook and tossed it into the bin beside her desk. _No, definitely not_.

She and Mr Gold had been on twenty-two official dates. Official in her book, at least; she’d informed him rather primly on the fourth that she was keeping track, and they’d argued for a good twenty minutes about the definition of a date. Gold, rather bizarrely to Belle, didn’t consider meals shared at either of their homes a date, nor their less-than-formal bagged lunches in her office at the library. Belle considered any allotment of time greater than forty-five minutes wherein their focus was solely or mostly on the other person to be a date. They’d agreed to disagree, and where Belle had counted twenty-two, Gold had nine. Belle had taken to claiming that this meant she was winning.

He still didn’t remember, and Belle was beginning to wonder if he ever would. More than beginning to wonder, truth be told. At the end of their last date, two nights before, he’d leaned in as if to kiss her as he dropped her home. She’d jerked back suddenly enough to crack her head against the doorframe.

_“Ow.” She rubbed the back of her head, wincing as her fingers met a tender spot. “Ouch.”_

_Gold immediately hooked his cane over one arm to bring his hands up to her head, sliding his fingers through her hair. “Hmm.” His fingertips caressed the back of her neck and her head softly, searchingly. “No lasting damage, I think.” He gave her a slight smile, his resignation clear in his eyes as he pulled away._

_Belle bit her lip. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to…to back away.”_

_Gold shook his head, shifting his cane back into his hands and not quite meeting her eyes. “Quite alright, dearie.”_

_She hated the distance in his voice. Looking at him, a fraction of a step further away than he’d been a moment before, she remembered Rumpelstiltskin throwing himself backwards off his stool, away from her, staring in horror at his own hands and throwing spiteful words her way. Empathy more than anything made her lift her arms and wrap them tightly around his shoulders, squeezing hard until his hands splayed cautiously across her back._

_She held him for as long as she could bear, breathing in his scent (and god, he smelled just the same), before brushing a kiss across his cheek and going inside. She brushed the tears off her cheeks before her father could see them._

“Belle?”

The youthful voice jerked the librarian out of her reverie. “Henry!” A broad smile spread across her face as she got to her feet, striding out of her office to greet him with a hug. “I haven’t seen you around here for a while.”

The boy looked a little abashed. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, I’ve been busy with…stuff.”

Belle lifted one eyebrow. “Stuff involving your new mom? And your fairytale book?”

He nodded, pulling the aforementioned tome out of his huge backpack. Belle couldn’t fathom how the tiny boy lugged it around all day.

“I actually wanted to ask you some stuff.”

Belle sighed inwardly, but painted a bright smile on her face, leading Henry to one of the large tables by the stacks. “Sure, Henry. You know I love that book.”

They sat side-by-side as Henry leafed through and talked her through it, Belle occasionally looking up to smile and nod at passing patrons.

“…So, Mary Margaret and David definitely don’t know yet. And Emma’s the Saviour because she’s their daughter, or because they let her go, or something. I’m not really sure why. But she still doesn’t believe, not really.” He sounded so forlorn Belle almost wanted to tell him everything, but settled for a quick squeeze around his shoulders instead. “And I don’t think anyone else remembers.” He paused, his eyes darting over to her as he turned a few more pages. “I was thinking…well, it must be hard.”

“What must be hard, Henry?” Belle asked, half-certain she knew the answer.

“Well…remembering. Because, if one person remembered, and no-one else did, they’d have to keep it a secret from my mom – the Evil Queen, I mean. And it would be lonely, everyone you used to know not even recognising you.”

Belle hesitated before answering. “Well, if I understand it right, then they would recognise you. Maybe not as who you really are, but they’d know you in some way. Like Mary Margaret – she _knows_ David Nolan, doesn’t she? Maybe not as her Prince Charming, but as someone.”

Henry shook his head, frustrated. “But that would be even worse! Everyone thinking you’re someone you’re not!”

Belle blinked hard, getting to her feet and hurrying over to the front desk and shuffling through some papers. “I don’t know, Henry,” she said eventually. “Surely people would remember. If everyone in Storybrooke knew each other in the other world, then surely being surrounded by them, every day, people would start remembering. They’d remember something. They’d –” she broke off, her voice cracking.

She sat down hard in the big chair behind the desk, re-piling some books she was still cataloguing. Henry came to stand in front of the desk, his movements slow and cautious.

“I…I dunno,” he said quietly. “Maybe.” He paused. “It’ll be alright, though. Emma will fix it. She’ll save everyone.”

His voice wavered even more than Belle’s had a moment ago, and her heart broke for him as he turned to leave. Taking a deep breath, she stood. _You don’t have to be alone_ , she told herself. _You don’t have to do it all alone_.

Hurrying to catch up with the boy, and nearly tripping in her heels, she stood in the doorway and called after him as he disappeared out the front door. “Henry!” When he turned, she beckoned him over, leaving down to speak softly in his ear, half-afraid someone might hear and half-hoping someone did.

“It’s not that bad. Remembering.”

She gave him a quick smile before turning back into the library, her heels clacking on the floor in time with her quick, frantic breaths. She retreated back to the safety of her office, absently picking a book up from the desk and holding it close to her chest.

 _I always wanted to be brave_.

***

“Oh, drat,” she muttered, holding her woollen hat up to her eye-level and squinting at it. There’d been a thread coming loose at the back, and she’d pulled at it, hoping to snap it off before it unravelled even more. Of course, pulling at it had now left a gaping hole just above the wide brim, fraying at the edges and threatening to grow even more. Belle sighed, stuffing the blasted thing into her bag before she shouldered it. _Another knitting project_ , she thought glumly.

She had vague curse-memories of her mother teaching her to knit when she was very young, all soft wool and gentle loops, intertwined irrevocably with the scent of her hair and her fragile, frail bones. She’d dug her old knitting needles out from the back of her closet a few weeks ago, and bought what her father described as ‘a metric shitload’ (she’d whacked him firmly on the arm at that) of wool is all different colours; baby pink, pure white, deep burgundy. There was a periwinkle blue she’d made into a scarf that had earned her a softly-spoken compliment from Mr Gold, which had made her face heat despite the cold weather. She’d made two sets of bright red gloves for Henry, who was always losing his, and a decorated tea-cosy for Granny after she’d exclaimed how lovely her home-made things were.

It had been rather comforting, at first, weaving the soft wool into warm, lovely things for her friends and neighbours. Then she’d resolved to make something extra-special for Mr Gold; a scarf, because she never saw him wear one but he must be cold, surely. She picked out and discarded a thousand colours: a light brown that matched his eyes, but looked too glum by itself; a deep purple, almost black, that she knew would suit him but which he’d take one look at and never wear; a deep grey that was muted and distinguished enough for the stern Mr Gold but nothing that her dramatic Rumpelstiltskin would want. She settled finally on a dark forest green, simple and elegant and rich and very, very soft to the touch.

And as she’d knit and purled and stitched, slowly but surely, the needles firm and warm against her skin, she could almost hear the slow creaking turn of a spinning wheel in her mind.

_“Why do you spin so much?”_

_Those dark, inhuman eyes, so soft and gentle and fearful, open and vulnerable, hers to have if only she’d take him. A single brush of lips, tiny and inconsequential and the most important thing in the world. A tingle of magic; a warmth that wasn’t from his skin, but that flowed through his veins and his mind and that stopped, just for a moment, stopped and beheld her and loosened its iron grip in the face of Lady Belle of the Marshlands._

The memory had faltered and faded as she dropped a few stitches. She’d gone back and fixed them, smoothing her fingertips over the soft wool and remembering the feel of his hair, when he’d sat on her tattered sofa in a land without magic and looked surprised that she’d made him dinner.

In her mind’s eye she could see another kiss, an altogether more human-looking (but perhaps a little less human on the inside, she sometimes wondered) man, and a much simpler girl, in jeans and boots and cosy homemade accessories. She could see her hands in his hair, and his in hers, and bodies pressed closer together than propriety would approve of, and a fevered clash of lip and tongues and teeth that made her shiver.

She could see his hand trailing down her cheek, could see her own gaze flicking up from his swollen lips to his soft brown eyes, and seeing no trace of recognition for the woman she once was. For the man he used to be. For what they had, and lost, and found again.

She’d left the half-finished scarf shoved behind her dresser, and hadn’t gone back to it. She wasn’t sure she could bring herself to mend her hat.

She was shivering as soon as she stepped into the cold air, despite bundling her scarf up to her ears. She had to lock the library up before she could put on my bulky gloves, and she jumped up and down a few times as she struggled with the lock, stamping her feet to get as much warmth into them as possible. She grumbled a little, jiggling the thin key forcefully in the lock. _Stupid bloody ice_ , she thought miserably.

A loud crack resounded through the air, and Belle stumbled, almost falling on the ice as the key snapped off in her hand. She put one hand on the door to steady herself, her breath coming out in little puffs like a dragon.

Kneeling down to peer at the keyhole, she saw half of the key still wedged in the lock. Jiggling the handle, she found it firmly locked.

“Oh, for _Christ’s_ sake!”

A low snigger from behind her made her whirl around, the hand clutching the broken half-key flying to her heart.

“Problem, dearie?”

Belle felt herself flush. “Um. The key broke.” She held the twisted piece of metal up.

Mr Gold stepped forward, leaning close to pluck the broken key from her fingers, the soft leather of his gloves brushing feather-light against her bare fingertips. He held it up to inspect it.

“Hmm,” he murmured ponderously. “I take it the other half in still in the lock?” He stepped forward to peer at the lock, as Belle had a moment ago. He still wasn’t wearing a scarf, she noticed with a smile.

“I suppose,” she said slowly, leaning back against the door, perilously close to him now. “This would be your responsibility to fix. As landlord of 95% of the town.”

Gold straightened up, fixing her with a stern look. “97%, if you please, Miss French.”

Belle giggled. “Of course.” She dug her gloves out of her bag and slipped them over her icy fingers, rubbing her palms together to warm them. “But I would report this to you, wouldn’t I? Seeing as I can’t very well open the library, a treasured public resource, tomorrow, if the lock’s broken and sealed shut.”

Gold tutted, slipping the broken key into his coat pocket and wrapping his own hands around the head of his cane. _Coat, gloves, shoes, suit – all black_ , Belle noted. _Rumpelstiltskin only dressed like that when he wanted to scare someone_.

“Well, Miss French,” Gold said smoothly. “It could be argued that this little mishap was the result of carelessness on the part of the tenant, rather than the poor condition of the building. It would therefore be your responsibility to have this little inconvenience taken care of.” His eyes were twinkling, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he stepped a tiny bit closer to her.

Belle put her hands on her hips in mock indignation, thrusting her chin up and glaring at him. “Oh! So my not-so-gentlemanly landlord plans to blame the innocent librarian for her tragic predicament? How very ungallant of you, Mr Gold.”

Gold’s mouth twisted into a smile. “Well, I never pretended to be a white knight, Miss French.” His voice was a little breathless. Belle tilted her head, trying to catch his eye. He looked nervous.

She stepped closer, so that their arms were half an inch from touching. “And I never said I wanted one,” she murmured. “Just a competent and reliable landlord.”

He smiled at that, looking up at her. “Indeed.”

He held her gaze for a few more moment, before clearing his throat. “I would say, given that the library is a much-valued public resource, I can always make an exception this once and organise the repairs myself.” He paused. “Of course, it would mean paying out of my own pocket for a locksmith. A higher price than one would normally pay a locksmith, in fact, given that Mr Grimes over at The Lock Shop would have to come out either now,” he glanced at his watch. “Well past normal working hours, or else very early tomorrow morning.” He smirked. “Since you seem so fond of working frightfully late, I assume you open frightfully early as well.”

Belle giggled and gave him a gentle shove with her elbow. “You’re one to talk. How long do you keep your pawn shop open when you’re expecting some desperate person to come along and trade their firstborn for a rent extension?” It felt strange, to joke about it like this. The uncomprehending, amused smile that he gave back was lovely and painful all at once.

“Well, Miss French,” he continued, not bothering to speak above a murmur now they were so close, huddled together by the door. “I would be more than happy to remedy this little accident for you. In exchange for some compensation, of course.”

Belle raised one eyebrow, giving him a dangerous look. “Compensation?”

Gold raised his own eyebrow in response, his lip curling. “I’m running a business, Miss French, not a charity.”

“And how much would I owe you, exactly?”

She knew the answer before he said it, even before his eyes flicked down to her lips and his tongue darted out for just a second to wet his own.

“A kiss.”

She could have said no. He would have nodded, smiled, bid her goodnight and went on his way, leaving her to go on hers. He wouldn’t have stopped seeing her, he wouldn’t have left her or shunned her or thrown her away. In that moment, her gaze flying between his soft, uncertain eyes and his clenched knuckles and his lips, Belle saw more of her Rumpelstiltskin in him than she ever had. She saw a care there, a care for her, something that told her very certainly that this man would catch her if she fell from a ladder, would give her a rose and set her free, would protect her with everything he had.

_I always wanted to be brave._

Belle leaned forward, rested her hand on her Rumpelstiltskin’s cheek, and kissed him.


	5. Chapter 5

Once, Rumpelstiltskin had brought a lizard into the Dark Castle. It was a tiny thing, just curling around his fingertips as he held it up to flick its tongue against Belle’s nose. She’d squirmed away and giggled, pointing a warning finger at his face and telling him in no uncertain terms to keep it away from her.

“It’s too much like a snake, and I hate snakes,” she said, screwing up her nose at the hissing lizard.

Rumpelstiltskin cooed, lifting the lizard up to his face and smiling at it, one of his curling, Dark-One smiles. “Awfully unfair of you, dearie. This is a Fellian Firedragon, one of the rarest and most valuable species in the twelve kingdoms. Tricksy little thing.”

Belle had swatted his arm with her dishcloth, keeping him at a distance. “All the same, I’d rather have him far away from me.”

“Mhmm,” he murmured, looking at the lizard rather than her. “Searched for hours in those bloody woods, until I found his nest. He wasn’t there, of course, a few little rapscallions had caught him in a trap, and brought him to a little village called Mallowwall to show him off to their friends.”

Belle’s heart gave a little lurch, and she narrowed her eyes warily at the lizard, draped casually over Rumpelstiltskin’s fingers. “Oh. Did…something bad happen to them?”

He chortled, poking the lizard and making it crawl over his hand and onto his forearm. “Not a thing, dearie. Three weeks, they’d had him, and they were still all _ooh_ -ing and _aah_ -ing over his scales.” He brought the lizard gently back to his clawed hand, holding it up to the light and letting her see how it shimmered. She wondered if he even noticed his arm doing the same thing.

She tilted her head, taking a step forward despite herself. “Oh.” She hesitated. “Did they hurt it?”

Rumpelstiltskin finally tore his eyes from his prize, lowering his arms and appraising her sharply. “Oh no,” he said briskly. “Tricksy little thing was running up and down their arms, eating out of their hands bold as brass and right as rain.” He snorted, tucking the lizard into the breast pocket of his jacket. “Gets kidnapped and decides to make friends.” He narrowed his eyes at her, pinching her arm gently as he brushed past her and headed for the door. “Reminds me of someone.”

She’d giggled, and thought on his words while she finished dusting, and went to bed that night feeling a strange sort of happiness, as she always did when Rumpelstiltskin offered one of his odd little compliments. She felt she’d gotten quite good at recognising them, now; at least, she was more pleased than offended when he stared at her a little too long and called her a ‘funny little thing’.

As she lay in bed that night, she let her thoughts drift to those nice things he said to her. ‘Nice’ rather than ‘sweet’ or ‘flattering’; ‘nice’ in that very Rumpelstiltskin way, where he seemed off-balance, and forever unsure of himself. It must have been an awfully long time since he’d been nice to somebody. She felt very sure that they were friends now, if he wanted to be nice to her.

Her bed had felt more comfortable than ever, that night. Up until she felt something moving around in it.

She let out a bloodcurdling scream, throwing back the covers and throwing herself from the bed, brushing her hands desperately all over her body while running for the safety of the door.

It flew open before she could reach it, and Rumpelstiltskin stalked in, the faint light from the moon throwing strange shadows across the murderous look on his face.

He’d grabbed her arms, stilling her, and brought her in close to his chest, closer than she’d ever been. With a flick of his wrist, the covers of her bed rose into the air and flattened, a tiny dark lump falling onto the mattress. He curled his hand towards himself, and the little lizard flew across the room and was tucked neatly into his pocket.

Belle let out a tiny, breathy laugh, clutching at Rumpelstiltskin’s loose shirt. He wasn’t wearing his waistcoat, she noticed.

“Oh my Gods…” she breathed, dropping her head to his chest without a thought. “Oh, how foolish. Gods, I was so frightened.”

He wrapped his arms lightly around her back, making a soothing noise in his throat. “Hush, now, hush.”

She’d loosened her grip on his shirt and looped her arms around his back then. She hadn’t been able to stop shaking. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, for something so silly. Oh, Gods.”

He’d huffed a laugh, tucking her head more firmly under his chin. “Shh, don’t you worry, pet. ‘Tis hardly foolishness, to fear a monster in your bed.”

Pressed up against him as she was, she hadn’t missed the way he drew in a sharp breath, the muscles along his back stiffening before he pulled back, gripping her shoulders and holding her at arm’s length. He cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, his voice a teasing imitation of a stern schoolmaster, but not without an undercurrent of gentleness. “No more screaming the castle down, yes? One wouldn’t want to disturb the ghosts.”

She’d giggled, rubbing her hands furious over her face. “Yes,” she murmured. “No more screaming.”

He’d loosened his grip on her shoulders then, his hands falling down until he cupped her elbows, his touch gentle. His whole face had softened from the fierce expression he’d worn when he came in, and the moonlight reflected a longing in his eyes she was sure he’d never wear in the daylight.

His eyes flicked down, just for a moment, but she felt his gaze like a caress, sweeping down the lines of her body, clad only in her thin chemise.

“Good night, my Lady,” he whispered.

He was out the door before Belle could respond, and she stood alone for a moment, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the sudden cold.

“Good night, my Lord.”

***

Mr Gold took it much better than Belle French, she thought dazedly. Of course, Miss French hadn’t had anyone to catch her.

He leaned heavily on her shoulders, his cane all but forgotten on the snowy ground. His breath was coming in long, laboured gasps, and his eyes were squeezed shut.

Belle held him firmly around his ribs, pressing her forehead against his and dropping tiny kisses on his cheeks, before burying her face in his neck. “It’s OK…it’s OK…I’m here, I’ve got you…”

He pulled back after a few minutes, his eyes glazed and his face drained of all colour.

“Oh, gosh.” Belle leaned down and picked up his cane, wrapping his fingers around it and leaving her hand atop his, squeezing his gently. “Do you think you can walk?”

He nodded dumbly, staring at her with a thousand emotions warring on his face.

“It’s OK, Rumpelstiltskin,” she murmured, laying one hand on his cheek. “I remember.”

He let out a choked sob, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, her hand going to his hair and stroking him softly. “It’s OK,” she said into his shoulder, wondering why she couldn’t think of a single other thing to say. “It’s OK.” Pulling back slightly, she scrutinised his face. “Do you think you can walk?”

He nodded, following her slowly, haltingly, as she took his hand and led him down the steps and onto the street. “My – my car,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I brought my car.”

Belle smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think you should be driving,” she said softly. “I’ll walk you home.”

She slipped her arm through his and kept a tight grip on it as they navigated the icy streets, steering him as best she could around the worst patches and waiting patiently as he gripped the railings with white knuckles when they descended the steps up to his house.

She put the kettle on as soon as she’d deposited him on the sofa, bustling about making the tea and collecting some biscuits on a plate and trying to steady her breathing. She was in Rumpelstiltskin’s home now, not Mr Gold’s. Rumpelstiltskin was waiting for her in the living room; Rumpelstiltskin would be sipping her tea. The last time Lady Belle of the Marchlands and the fearsome Rumpelstiltskin had been in a room together, he’d been telling her he didn’t want her anymore, and she’d walked away from him.

A floorboard creaked behind her, and she whirled around, startled, to find him standing in the doorway. He leaned heavily on the frame, then the wall, then the kitchen counter, until he was standing only a few inches from her. His chest was heaving, his eyes dark and intent and his hair wild. _Rumpelstiltskin_ , Belle thought, her breath catching in her chest. _He looks like Rumpelstiltskin._

“ _Belle_ …” His voice was hoarse, and his arm trembled where he was gripping the counter. Belle reached out, for a moment expecting to feel his cool, mottled scales beneath her fingertips.

“It’s OK,” she whispered, leaning in to curl her other hand around the back of his neck, resting her forehead on his. His eyes fluttered closed, and Belle felt his breath ghost over her lips. She remembered wide dark eyes, the smell of leather, the creaking spinning wheel.

 _Reminds me of someone_.

“Everything’s OK, now.”


End file.
